Some things don't fit in a book

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Fuck You

My brother is one of the bravest people I know.

I got angry today. I got so angry, I completely lost control and attacked the people that care for me the most.

This involved calling my mother an “arrogant bitch”, telling my brother to keep out of it or “I’ll hit you in the face”, and following this threat by grabbing him by the throat and smashing the back of his head into the stairs.

I told him if he followed me, I’d hit him again. Mom tried to calm us down. He leapt between me and mom, determined to not let me hurt mom. He shut himself in my room with me and told me to “put me into hospital, see how you feel then!” to which I responded “Fuck off, I don’t feel.”

And then I grabbed him once more, opened the door, and threw him across the hall and into mom, who crashed backwards into the wall, winding herself and falling to the floor. My dazed, supportive and loving brother then tried to help her up. A pang of shame filled me and I went to help. He tried to push me away.

I responded by swinging one arm into his chest and throwing him into a pillar, from which he then fell and lay crumpled on the floor.

Fortunately, seeing my brother crying on the floor gave mom the strength she needed to get up, pushing me aside. They disappeared upstairs, leaving behind the memory of their scared and bewildered eyes.

I packed a bag and left.

My granddad used to beat my grandmother. To stop him, my dad would provoke him, get in the way, and take the beating himself. Sounds familiar. My granddad at least had the excuse of being a drunk. I just have no control.

And now my brother is as upset with me as I am with my dad. Probably more so. It’s not like my dad ever attacked me. He just stole from me, insulted me, ignored me, criticised me, belittled me. He no longer even knows who I am. He told me today that I am “shy”. It’s like he’s been in prison for the last five years, not the last five months.

Fuck him.

And if I can hold that attitude towards my father, then I can perfectly and utterly understand how my brother feels towards me. I’ll get round to forgiving my father at some point. I hope my brother can someday forgive me.

But, I left. When my mom was freaking out about moving, when I was supposed to be organising all the moving and the packing and getting all those heavy damned things from one household to another, I left with a fucking heavy bag rolling along behind me, and sat down at a bus stop.

I watched the cars drive by, hoping against hope that the bus would arrive soon and that no one I knew would drive by. I ignored my mother when she pulled up. She eventually left.

I’d started to calm down. I’d gone from that angry place to that “what the fuck just happened, lock it behind a door and make jokes” place. Do you know how many weird looks you get when you’re walking through St Heliers in a nice jacket and cool boots, lugging a heavy suitcase behind you? Now add in talking and muttering to yourself and you end up with a bunch of fucking confused rich people.

It was a little while later that I realised I’d forgotten a sleeping bag. And my passport.

I’m such a shallow arsehole, I’d packed my bag full of clothes and forgotten what I’d be sleeping in and how I’d get anywhere. I’ve lived such a pampered, sheltered life, I don’t even know how to run away properly.

In the process of rectifying these discrepancies however, I realised something.

I’d only reached out to one person for help. She was the sort of person who’d spot an attention-seeking text immediately and just ignore it until she had time.

I’d asked her for help via text because I knew she wouldn’t respond. That allowed me to carry on doing whatever I wanted under the belief that no one cared about me and that she was a bad friend.

So I came home and phoned another friend. I told her what had happened and I opened that door I’d locked and I cried until my nose clogged with snot and then I just hiccoughed.

No, I’m not okay, but yes, I will be okay. Right now, I feel stuck in a place where anger is delicious and the thrill of a fight is beaten only by the thrill of driving sideways.